Fallen Mighty
by WriterKos
Summary: "Your glory, O Israel, lies slain on your heights. How the mighty have fallen." Someone is dead and the living must survive the afteshocks. Written for the NFA Death Challenge  LAST CHAPTER IS UP!
1. Fallen Mighty

**_Title: Fallen Mighty_**  
**_Characters: Everyone... but no names are given_**  
**_Genre: Character Study, Angst, Drama._**  
**_Rating: FR13._**  
**_Plot: Your glory, O Israel, lies slain on your heights. How the mighty have fallen._**

**_ warning: This is a death fic. Someone very dear is dead. Be warned  
_**

**_Written for the Death NFA Challenge_**

**גִבֹּורִֽים׃ נָפְל֥וּ אֵ֖יךְ חָלָ֑ל בָּמֹותֶ֖יךָ עַל־ יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל הַצְּבִי֙**

_"Your glory, O Israel, lies slain on your heights. How the mighty have fallen!"_  
**_2 Samuel 1:19_**

The birds are singing loudly and the sun insists on shining over the somber group assembled in the sad ceremony that summer morning. The heat wave which is assaulting DC is mercilessly torturing them, as they sweat nonstop into their mandatory black suits as they are gathered to mourn the fall of one of their own.

The merciful breeze lazily moves the leaves on the urban oaks, firs and cherry trees strategically spread out through Arlington National Cemetery, making them dance with the wind and whisper a soft murmur as if they too were mourning.

One of their team has fallen. The mighty among them has fallen, and there's nothing they can do and no one to run to, as death has embraced their colleague in its cold arms and silently and inevitably took the mighty away.

The horse-drawn caisson is long gone, to wherever it goes after it has already fulfilled its purpose, probably off to help carry another brave soldier to his or her final resting place.

The pallbearers approach with the casket, and solemnly place it on the assigned place for the ceremony. The United States American flag lies on top of it, reminding them of the reason why they've fought, why they've bled, why they've sacrificed their time – and ultimately, if necessary – their very own lives for their mighty nation.

The marching Platoons arrange themselves in lines, and stand at attention, in respect to the mighty fallen, while the firing party gets ready to salute with their weapons of choice.

The sobbing of a young woman is heard as she cries broken heartedly against her soft black linen handkerchief. One of her colleagues, feeling the burden of command which is now heavily weighing on his shoulders, approaches her and silently gathers her in his strong arms, as she molds herself against his chest and wets the collar of his white shirt.

There are no words spoken between them. Their pain is too great.

The first salute breaks through the silence of that morning, scaring away the birds resting on the trees nearby. They screech and take flight, tiny dark dots moving in amazing speed against the blue skies, crying out complaining at those humans who dare interrupt their peace.

The team members flinch at its sound, as they had flinched at the sound of the shot that took one of their own. A coward's shot, silly really, not aimed to kill, but it had killed nonetheless.

A simple accident perpetrated by a scared young boy who, merely to prove his stubborn military father wrong, took his father's sniper rifle from its hidden place, without him knowing about that the boy had cracked the security code of the lock, and decided to play aim.

The boy was his father's son. His aim was true.

The shot rang out in the night silence, cutting the air and hissing, until it reached the back of the NCIS agent interrogating a potential suspect across the road in a house of that quiet Military base.

Both suspect and agent died in one single shot, while the other agents also present at the house – which soon became a crime scene - scrambled around trying to find the source of such a devious attack.

Their investigation had been merciless and also bittersweet. Only a few hours later, the suspect, not older than thirteen, was crying and begging for forgiveness as they stared at him with shock and anger.

It was just a kid. A stupid kid. An accident, easily prevented, but an accident nonetheless.

There were no great plots of assassination.

No intrigue or explosions to take away lives.

No rage or anger filled shootout with a suspect.

No awareness of danger, or even the smallest inkling that that day, that hour, that second… could be their very last.

No nothing.

The second salute sounds through the plains and this time they do not flinch. They stare with dead eyes at the casket, as the pallbearers slowly, oh so slowly, ceremoniously fold the American flag, in a ritual which had been repeated a dozen times, a hundred times – oh, no. Thousands.

But still, it did not lose its meaning. Nor does it diminish the pain of the loss it represents.

The senior soldier holds the flag, now just a small triangle, in reverence against his chest, turns around and marches in rigid steps up to the last living relative who, due to his very advanced age, remains sitting throughout the proceedings.

His old wrinkled face, pinkish by the summer sun and carrying the marks of suffering and pain, lifts tired red rimmed blue eyes to the young soldier who presents him the flag, in silent respect for his loss.

He nods to the soldier, just a boy really, before the decades and years of experience heavily weighting on his shoulders. He takes the flag with reverence, holding it against his chest, and his heartfelt sobs crush what's left of the spirit of the team members, as they all wish they had the freedom – and the courage – to expose their pain as freely as he is doing right now.

They gaze at the casket as the third salute sounds, then finally silence.

There are no words. Even the wind calms down until the trees finally stand still.

They remember lessons learnt.

They remember the rules which were forever ingrained into their brains.

They remember headslaps and forced conferences in the elevator.

Their pain is immeasurable, as a more senseless death for such a warrior cannot even be conceived, much less acknowledged as real.

Finally, a lone bugle sounds in the distance, its haunting melody filling the air, honoring the fallen and remembering past glories.

Its battle ready cry resounds in their hearts, each note echoing through their ears, down their chests and finally vibrating their body members.

A part of who they are was physically torn from them, and the wound is raw and bleeding. No healing salve can be applied to the weeping sore, as the most badly damaged part of them was the very core of their being.

How can you heal what cannot be touched?

How do you reach into a broken soul which does not have any strength to fight anymore?

How do you bring comforting words to one who does not wish to be consoled?

They didn't even have the solace of anger, as the killer was under custody, and further investigation revealed that it was exactly what it seemed to be.

An _accident_.

A stupid idiotic _accident_.

But an accident nonetheless.

How do you go on?

How?

And why?

Why did Gibbs have to die like this?

- TO BE CONTINUED -


	2. Ducky's mourning

**_Chapter 2: Ducky's mourning_**

Silence.

Silence and emptiness.

Silence permeates these corridors of NCIS, in the same measure of the emptiness I see in the eyes of those I chance to encounter in these silence paths.

Your death seems to have robbed a vital part of the soul of those who dwell within these orange walls. The brutality and the sheer abruptness of it seems to have struck many of the agents as a bomb blast, leaving many as leaves on the wind, valiantly struggling to fight its strength, yet failing miserably.

As I walk towards autopsy, I feel the weight of their stare on my person, as they know that I was one of your closest friends, perhaps the only one who had been given repeatedly a glimpse of your innermost soul.

Yet still, I've never fully comprehended the man behind your cold blue eyes, which could pierce a suspect until he squealed the truth hidden between his lies or also could offer compassion and tenderness to those suffering the loss of a loved one.

Yes, my dear friend. You have always been an enigma for those who had a chance of crossing your path. Many had feared you, others had respected you.

And there are also those who had shared their days with you, looking up at you for guidance and orientation for their work struggles and their life struggles, and it pains me as I see them suffering, stumbling about as orphans of a family that suddenly lost its paternal figure.

You were their mentor, their leader.

Their boss.

I finally arrive at autopsy, fit my Fedora hat on its usual place and silently approach my desk, sitting slowly on my chair. I do not turn the lights on, as darkness acts as a feeble solace to the pain slowly burning in my chest.

Yet, I don't find strength – nor courage – to weep.

For a long while I had thought that my biggest challenge in life had been having Caitlyn and Jennifer lying here, on the cold slabs of my autopsy, waiting for the cuts on their lifeless bodies which would be my very last stand on their already finished existence among the living.

Oh, Jethro, I was wrong.

I was so wrong.


	3. Ziva's mourning

**_Chapter 3: Ziva's Mourning _**

The traditional _Kaddish _prayer in no moment mentions death; It goes on and on about how we should praise and glorify the Almighty, the Great G-d, maker of heavens and earth.

It's the utmost show of love to our G-d to be able to praise him when our soul is bleeding, and our mind is clouded with doubt and pain.

We make a small tear on our clothing (_keriah_ קריעה) in order to show our pain for the loss of our loved one.

For the loss of a parent, the tear should be over one's heart.

The _Avelut _(mourning) period is divided in three distinct periods.

During _Shiva_, we visit the house of the mourner, and we do not exchange pleasantries or greetings. It is unnecessary. It's not even required for the mourner to acknowledge the visitor.

So, they will sit there, together, sharing the burden of their pain, until the mourner decides whether or not to speak to us.

This period lasts for seven days.

The second period, named _Shloshim_, lasts for one month. In it a mourner is forbidden to marry or to attend _seudat mitzvah_. Men do not shave or get haircuts during this time.

We might sit to learn the Torah together, seeking in its ancient words the comfort for the cold reality we live in.

The third period is named _Shneim asar chodesh_, which will finish only exactly one year counted from the day of death.

We go back to our normal routine: we go to work, to school, to the synagogue. The _Kaddish_ prayer is still recited through out the year at the synagogue though.

And we, one year later, will light a _Yahrtzeit_ candle in order to celebrate their death.

So I sit here, in my apartment, and recite the _Kaddish _for the man who had, during so many years, being more like a father than the one who is now in Israel, who trained me to be his weapon in his endless war that took so many I've loved from me.

I lean my head forward, feeling the tears falling unchecked from my eyes, and seek solace in the G-d of my people, hoping to find a cool balm to the pain that festers in my heart, for a senseless death which I have no one to blame.

No one to seek revenge.

_Yit-gadal v'yit-kadash sh'may raba b'alma dee-v'ra che-ru-tay, ve'yam-lich mal-chutay b'chai-yay-chon uv'yo-may-chon uv-cha-yay d'chol beit Yisrael, ba-agala u'vitze-man ka-riv, ve'imru amen.  
Y'hay sh'may raba me'varach le-alam uleh-almay alma-ya.  
Yit-barach v'yish-tabach, v'yit-pa-ar v'yit-romam v'yit-nasay, v'yit-hadar v'yit-aleh v'yit-halal sh'may d'koo-d'shah, b'rich hoo. layla (ool-ayla)* meen kol beer-chata v'she-rata, toosh-b'chata v'nay-ch'mata, da-a meran b'alma, ve'imru amen.  
Y'hay sh'lama raba meen sh'maya v'cha-yim aleynu v'al kol Yisrael, ve'imru amen.  
O'seh shalom beem-romav, hoo ya'ah-seh shalom aleynu v'al kol Yisrael, ve'imru amen._

Magnified and sanctified be G-d's great name in the world which He created according to His will. May he establish His kingdom during our lifetime and during the lifetime of Israel. Let us say, Amen.  
May G-d's great name be blessed forever and ever.  
Blessed, glorified, honored and extolled, adored and acclaimed be the name of the Holy One, though G-d is beyond all praises and songs of adoration which can be uttered. Let us say, Amen.  
May there be peace and life for all of us and for all Israel. Let us say, Amen.  
Let He who makes peace in the heavens, grant peace to all of us and to all Israel.  
Let us say, Amen.


	4. Tony's mourning

**_Chapter 4: Tony's mourning_**

It's raining.

It's hot, hazy and the skies are pouring down water as if all faucets in heaven were open and God and all of his angels are washing all golden avenues for the first time in years.

The water still keeps coming down in buckets, and I dread the moment when I have to leave my comfortable car to run to the door of the house I have to pack and clear any and all classified documents before sending all Gibbs' things to Jackson in Stillwater.

Man, I hate this.

Yet, I have volunteered for the task when Director Vance told me he would send a team to Gibbs' house to check his papers before allowing his father in to pack everything.

Just the thought of some stranger going through Gibbs' stuff , seeing his private things and invading his inner sanctum gave me chills, as if Boss himself was in the room glaring at me ordering me to make a stand.

I made a stand, so here I am, at Gibbs' house.

I sigh out loud, and brave the wind and the rain, opening my black umbrella that tries valiantly to protect me against the gusts of water that are getting my jacket wet. I lock the car and run across the street, before stopping in front of the door that, for me, has never been locked.

Now, that's changed.

I get the keys out of my pocket and open the door, hearing the hinges moaning for lack of use.

It's been four days, and entering the living room is like walking back to a time when beer and a grilled steak were always ready for me, whenever I happened to stop by unannounced, or when I would take refuge in the basement and sit for hours on the steps, just watching him sand and cut and sand again the wood, the material slowly taking for before my own eyes.

The door closes with a click behind me, and I'm assaulted by the stillness of the place. His faint aftershave for some reason still lingers in the air, and there is a used shirt thrown over the seat of the sofa which he must have left that morning before going to work.

He had no idea he would not be coming back to have it dry cleaned.

I have no idea where to start, so I follow my instincts and go to his most used room: the basement.

Once down there, I look around it and slide a hand over the carcass of yet another boat.

This one, this time, he won't have the time to finish it.

I feel a lump clogging my throat, and I walk to the shelves where he hid his precious bourbon. In a move I've seen him do countless times, I take one of the glass jars full of nuts and turn it over, the noise of the pieces on the table sound ridiculously loud in the silence of the basement, and I pour two inches of the precious amber liquid that I'll always associate with him.

The liquid goes down burning my throat, making my eyes tear out but I bite my lip and endure it, as the good soldier I am. At least, this time I would have the booze to blame for crying, not the ridiculous pain burning in my chest.

I put the glass on the counter and start opening drawers, going through their contents. One big drawer is stuck locked, and it spurs my curiosity to see what's in there. I find a tool and after some expert fiddling with the lock I'm able to open it, and I release a loud breath when I find a sniper rifle neatly tucked in its cushioned wrapping in the drawer.

I slide trembling fingers over the body of the riffle, the same type of weapon which had taken the life of my Boss.

Ironic that Gibbs had dedicated his career in the marines to master the skills of the same type of weapon that, one day several years later, would end up taking his life.

Life sucks sometimes.

I close my eyes when the images of Kate being shot suddenly get mixed up with Gibbs being shot, the blood coming from Kate's wound mixing with the blood that pooled under my hands as I covered the tiny entry wound on Gibbs' back.

I suddenly feel dizzy and open my eyes, unable to bear the sight my memory insists on showing me. When my vision clears and my legs stop shaking, I decide that I've been down the basement enough.

The scent of sawdust is enough of a memory for me. No need to contaminate it with the metallic scent of blood that permeates my memories.

I leave the basement and venture in the upper floors, a place that I've been rarely in all these years I've worked with him. I can easily spot which is his room, with its Spartan decoration and well made bed, it's almost impersonal in a very military way. There are no happy family pictures or feminine touches anywhere to be seen, and the dark wood furniture adds even more to the somber look of the room.

I open his wardrobe and I start looking through his things, but besides his usual jumper, suits and shirts and trousers, I don't find anything that remotely gives me an inkling of the man who's been my boss for so many years.

Same thing with the chest of drawers, just socks, underwear, more shirts and so on.

After such uninspiring venture I leave that room and go to the next. I open the door and I feel a deep well of pain in my chest as I look around it.

It's a little girl's room, completely preserved as if its owner had just left for a holiday, not as if she has been dead for years. The pink walls are peeling in some corners, and the army of teddy bears is carefully organized over the duvet on the bed, as if waiting for the return of their owner.

A little girl who will never come back to play with her dollies.

I take a step into the room, and I try to imagine Gibbs doing the same thing, year after year, entering this room and staring the Strawberry Shortcake duvet and the several children books and fairy tales carefully organized on the child-sized bookcase in a corner.

The loneliness and pain this room brings to me is too much to take, and I struggle valiantly to imagine how much it must have hurt to Gibbs to enter this room, year after year.

No wonder he could never clear it. Just looking at the stuff gathered here hurt. A lot.

I walk out of that room without touching anything in it. I'm sure Gibbs would never use his daughter's room to hide anything sensitive to NCIS.

It would be tarnishing his memory of her.

I enter the next bedroom, and this one also has been stripped bare, but it seems to be more like a storage room with several boxes here and there, and a stripped bare mattress has several boxes over it.

I start checking the drawers of the chests, and find several papers. I start going through them and that's how I spend most of my afternoon.

The rain stops a few hours later, and the sun comes back with all its strength. I had taken off my jacket some time ago, and now I'm only in my shirt with its sleeves folded, separating papers in piles. NCIS related, personal, very personal.

I finish the drawers and start going through some boxes. I divide them again into what I have to take to NCIS, what I don't have to take there and what I know one of the team would enjoy having as a small memento of him.

I miraculously find some pictures of the team, most of them some goofy pictures we've taken at some crime scene or other during the years. I chuckle when I find one where Probie still had that ridiculous chubby look with that completely egg shaved head. I trace my fingers over Kate's face in full NCIS uniform, a curl of her hair stuck to her glossy lips as she looks to someone who is not in the picture. It's a beautiful picture, which had been able to capture her essence in a simple click.

There are pictures of Abby making faces of the camera, and these I'm quite sure that the Mistress of Darkness herself took those and gave them to our fearless leader.

Then I find some pictures of me. I stop and I glance at my own face, with fewer lines and much more gel in a cocky hairstyle that I had abandoned a few years back. The smartass smile in my face in the glossy picture almost makes me cry for the easy going person I see in the paper.

I barely recognize that smiling person looking back at me.

That Anthony DiNozzo is long gone.

I pocket the pictures, sure that the team will want to know that they were loved and remembered by him. I then walk around the bed and start checking the drawers of the side table, and find some more papers and a small box.

A small black tin box.

I sit down on the mattress and slowly open the box. I frown when I check its contents. It's a mixed collection of papers of different sizes and origins, a receipt of a gas station here, a boarding pass there, several cuts of paper which seemed to have been ripped in a hurry just to write down a few lines.

The rules.

Gibbs' rules.

I sit more comfortably on the mattress and I slowly unveil one by one, remembering several moments when he used one or another to teach us. My fingers touch some pictures, and my heart squeezes a little bit when I see Kelly and Shannon in them.

I find a picture in which a very young Gibbs is in his Gunny's uniform, holding a smiling Shannon by her waist and Kelly smiling a toothy grin, the happiness in the picture is simply breathtaking.

I lean back on the mattress, and I smile at the picture for the first time since this whole nightmare has started.

"You're home now, Boss."


	5. McGee's Mourning

**_Chapter 5: McGee's Mourning_**

I shouldn't be here.

I really didn't want to be here.

But still, here I am, silently walking between rows and rows of white tombstones organized in such precise order that every angle I look I can see the bright green grass dotted with white dots in straight lines.

It's a beautiful day. The heat wave that has been attacking DC mercilessly has diminished, leaving a soft breeze that whispers between the boughs of the trees. The cherry trees look beautiful against the bright green carpet of the grass and the bright blue skies mock my mood as I feel like a thunderstorm is raging inside my soul.

In the first moment, my initial reaction was shock, and the desire to deny the fact that this has ever happened.

My eyes initially refused to believe the quick succession of facts that happened right before my eyes, and the crazy rush of adrenaline as we ran out of the house looking for the one who had committed such grievous crime.

My next reaction was rage. I wanted to find the person who had killed Boss and use my bare hands around his or her skinny neck, until the last light of life dimmed and disappeared forever.

But my rage remained unfulfilled as our investigation unveiled that a boy – a stupid boy - with his father's gun had caused such terrible crime. As I looked at that whimpering boy crying at our feet, scared of our stern faces, I could feel the cinders of my burning rage diminish, until only ashes stayed; they gave me a bitter taste in my mouth, and the even worst certainty that there was no one to blame.

No one to seek revenge against.

I went to the funeral in autopilot. If you ask me how did I get there, to whom did I talk to, or how did I get back home, I honestly don't know if I can tell you, as everything is just a blur that day.

Vance gave us all a week for bereavement leave. His decision was based on the little scene he witnessed when we returned from Boss' funeral, and we all went back to the bullpen and sat in our respective desks, and for some reason we seemed incapable of talking or looking to each other.

It was like we were frozen statues, cut out of rock and stone and for some reason we felt… unfinished. As if the chisel of the great sculptor which had painfully worked on our curves and lines had suddenly become silent, leaving us incomplete.

I stop when I hear the sound of horse hooves on the gravel, and I turn around to see a horse drawn chariot with another coffin carefully covered with the American flag, and the silent group of people following it to its final resting place going down the road a few yards away. The serious faces of the uniformed men marching along the chariot are a poignant sign of respect that this soldier will have before being buried six feet under.

My eyes find and rest on one little girl, not older than six, her face solemn as she observes the movements of the adults around her. She is firmly held in one woman's arms, probably her mother.

The little girl leans her head against her mother's shoulders and for a moment her gaze meets mine. She smiles brightly when she notices me looking at her, and waves with her cute little hand as they walk by me.

I smile faintly and wave back, and I watch their solemn group until they make a turn in the way and disappear from my sight.

I'm alone again, so I turn around and keep walking towards my objective. A few yards further ahead, under a beautiful cherry tree that will soon bloom in bright colors I find his headstone.

I look at the small bouquet of black flowers, courtesy of Abby for sure and the small mementos the others have left in their visits. Ziva's necklace is right beside Tony's DVD of Air Force One. Ducky has left a small tartan handkerchief, and if I'm not mistaken that's Palmer's handwriting in an envelope.

I slowly sit down in front of the headstone, staring at it for a long time.

The first day we were on leave I simply sat in my apartment, staring sightlessly ahead on my bed, trying to figure out what now. What next?

No miraculous answer came to me in an epiphany.

I kept thinking, Why him? We were all in that room, standing close by the windows.

That shot could have hit any of us.

If that shot have hit one of us, not him, would the pain be less than this empty hole we were feeling right now? Or would the wound be as infected as it is right now?

What if… What if …

Why was I spared again? We've lost Kate, Jenny, now Gibbs.

If it had been me…

I can't hold back my pain anymore, so I cradle my head on my hands and let the sobs and pain and doubt bubble out. The tears that wet my face are just a small part of the endless river of tears I seem to be shedding these last few days.

The pain is so deep that I sometimes can literally feel my chest squeezing my heart, and I pray to God that the numbness arrive soon as I don't know if I can go on the way I am.

I heave and sob, feeling my pain being washed away with my tears and I lean forward and support one hand on the ground, closing my eyes as I see flashes of these last eight years behind my closed eyelids.

I don't know how long I've stayed there, kneeling before his grave and crying. But soon the tears are over, the well is dry. I dry my face and I lift my head, looking for a handkerchief in my pocket to clean my tears.

I close my eyes and lean my face back, feeling the bright sun burning against my skin, and sweat slowly gathering on my back and starting to run on my neck. My face must be red and blotted, but right now I'm simply glad that I feel numb.

At least, for now, I'm empty. There are no more tears to be cried.

The change is quite welcome, as I don't know how long I can keep going like that. Right now, numbness is good.

I sigh loudly, and I'm surprised when a sweet feminine voice starts humming to my right. I open my eyes and I look around, trying to locate the source of it and I notice a woman in a white dress with tiny red roses kneeling before another grave. She glances briefly at me when she feels my gaze on her, and smiles faintly and nods.

I gulp and nod in return, and I watch as she reverently deposits her offer of red roses in front of the headstone she came to visit, while her other hand rests over a very pregnant tummy. She must be around eight months pregnant, as she looks ready to give birth at any moment.

She keeps humming a haunting song that brings me shivers as I look with red eyes at her as she smiles faintly at me, and starts singing an old hymn that pierces my senses and seem to be written specially for me.

_When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,  
When sorrows like sea billows roll;  
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,  
It is well, it is well, with my soul. _

_It is well, with my soul,  
It is well, it is well, with my soul._

_You can tell someone you love 'em__  
From the bottom of your heart  
And believe that it's the truest thing you've known  
And even if you never break the promises you make  
The river's gonna keep on rolling on_

And if you haven't got a dollar  
Not a penny to your name  
Somebody's gonna miss you when you're gone  
And even if you never find  
Just A Little Peace of Mind  
The river's gonna keep on rolling on

Keep on rollin' to the ocean  
Keep on rollin' to the sea  
Keep on rollin' 'till the love we need  
Washes over you and me

_God's love is like a river  
At every turn and every bend  
And faith in Him will turn your heart around  
'Cause even though we sin,  
There's forgiveness in the end  
And the river's gonna keep on rollin' on_

_ Keep on rollin' to the ocean__  
Keep on rollin' to the sea  
Keep on rollin' 'till the love we need  
Washes over you and me  
Keep on rollin' 'till the love we need  
Washes over you and me..._

It is well with my soul  
It is well, it is well, with my soul.


	6. Abby's mourning

**_Chapter 6: Abby's mourning_**

_Cover my eyes_  
_Cover my ears_  
_Tell me these words are a lie_  
_It cant be true_  
_That I'm losing you_  
_The sun cannot fall from the sky_

How can the sun still shine brightly in the sky when my heart feels filled with clouds and shadows?

Forensics has always been my faithful companion and friend, offering me solace in its constant rules and applications, bringing order to disorder and telling me that yes, things sometimes are difficult but there's an explanation to what happens in the world.

Yet, my dear Forensics has failed me. Evidence does not lie, yet every single minute I unveiled something new I begged to God that those results were wrong.

The evidence at hand HAD to be lying.

Reality became a cold and cruel place, filled with people who looked at me with pity in their eyes, and those who shared the same pain that was ripping myself apart could barely put a couple of sentences together in order to explain what happened in that room.

How could that have happened?

What did we miss?

Why had Gibbs' gut failed him in such crucial moment?

There was no warning sign. No fluttering of curtains to announce the bullet which was flying towards him, cutting him so cruelly and ending his life. The light of his eyes dimmed as my dear Timmy held him in his arms, while Tony and Ziva ran out of the house, trying to find the source of the bullet.

It hurts, ah, it hurts so much to even think of a world without him. No surprise visits to bring me Caff Pow, no more kisses in my cheeks, no more head slaps on the heads of my dear agents.

I wipe my face, surprised at the wetness I find in my fingers. I've been crying for so long that I would like to know when will the fountain become dry.

Will I ever dry out?

Losing Kate was hard; Losing Jenny was … difficult in so many ways, as she completed El Jefe in our own dysfunctional family in a very precise way.

But Losing Gibbs?

What will we do now?

Our family is torn apart, the children all sitting in different corners trying to lick their own wounds and struggling to deal with it their own way. In moments like this, it was Gibbs that put us together, found the breaches in our walls and filled with his demanding personality.

How can you put together what is so torn that you can't even count the pieces?

Here I am, surrounded by my babies - Major Spectometer is silent, my computers only have some blinking lights on - and yet, I feel nothing.

There's this huge emptiness inside my heart, and I feel my thoughts drifting. What am I going to do now? What's going to happen to the team now?

There's no music playing. Any festive sound would be an insult to his memory, who thrived on silence and thoughtfulness.

His blue eyes haunt me, as everywhere I look I see something that reminds me of him.

The sound of the bugle, its mournful melody floating over the graves of thousands of soldiers, still haunts me.

Once the bugle stopped, no more music was heard in my lab, as if the music had died that day and was being buried along with the brave marine being put to ground in that bright morning in the Arlington Cemetery.

Will I ever be able to hear music again?


	7. Jimmy's mourning

_**Chapter 7: Jimmy's mourning**_

Frankly, I've always been terrified of the man.

His mere presence in the room seemed to spark the worst part of me, that one that always gave the strangest ideas to my brain and made me say the most inappropriate thing at the wrong moment in front of the wrong person.

All he had to do then was look at me with those piercing blue eyes and my brain would dig into its huge collection of useless facts and surprise, here is wasted another great chance that I could have used to stay quiet and instead, I've just alienated him again.

Just my dumb luck.

Yet, I can't deny that his mere presence in the room seemed to spark an eagerness in those around him to do their best, to seek justice and to … well, to be like him.

His friendship with Dr. Mallard has always confused me a little, as two more diverse people in the whole universe are very hard to find.

Dr. Mallard's frequent streams of consciousness, his encyclopedic knowledge on anything and everything and his eagerness to share said knowledge with others was a sharp contrast with the taciturn and mostly silent man who ruled over MCRT with just a glance, making his agents actually anticipate his orders before he even voiced them out loud.

Yet, now he is dead.

And I see each of my friends and my beloved Dr. Mallard sinking in a deep well of sadness that I feel that they won't be able to crawl out without help.

And that's the reason why I'm here.

NCIS NCIS NCIS NCIS

"Director Vance will see you know, Mr. Palmer," says Vance's secretary, and I check my tie for the ninth time in the last five minutes before I enter to talk to my Boss' Boss.

"Please take a seat, Mr. Palmer," Vance says without looking up from the papers in his hands, and I can literally feel sweat starting to appear on my back as I sit slowly in the chair in front of his desk. A nervous tick also appears on my eye, and I blink desperately trying to get rid of it.

My hands are sweating like crazy, but all this nervousness is not going to change me of my set course.

Finally he puts aside the papers and study me, making me feel even more nervous about what I'm about to do.

"How can I help you, Mr. Palmer? It's quite unusual for you to come directly to me requesting a meeting about - and I'm quoting you here - '_a serious matter that must be addressed in order to guarantee the future of NCIS_'." Vance says, reading from the letter I've sent to his secretary requesting a spot in his calendar to talk to him.

I cringe at his ironic tone, "I think I was too much pompous on my request, but desperate circumstances require desperate measures, and I've felt that you are the only one here in the office who could offer me help."

"Really? So, pray, tell me, what do you need me to do?"

I bite my lower lip, considering my options before leaning towards the Director, "I believe you have noticed how things have been... different, since Agent Gibbs' untimely death three weeks ago."

Vance's eyebrows rise almost to his hairline, as I've probably surprised him with my conversation topic.

"Indeed. What do you classify as... different, Mr. Palmer?"

"Abby's lab is silent as she refuses to listen to music anymore. Ziva, Tony and McGee are barely functioning as they are now back to work but their hearts are not into it." I approach Vance's table, looking around as if afraid of someone besides the director could hear my next words.

"Ducky's conversations with the dead have changed. Instead of asking personal things, or how did they died, he is actually asking the corpses if they have already seen Agent Gibbs since their arrival in the Pearly Gates of Heaven."

Vance is staring at me with inscrutable eyes, "I see."

"That's the point, you don't," I disagree with him, and I immediately blush as I see him frowning at me for daring contradict him. But I ignore my churning fear in my gut and plow ahead, "You are here, in your office, and you haven't really seen how Gibbs' death shook the team. None of them are the same. And we have to do something, because they will soon be in a depression so deep that if we don't take action now, I really don't know what will happen with them."

Vance stares at me for a long moment, and I realize that I have just reprimanded the Director of NCIS and I have accused him of being blind, egoistical and unaware of the problems of his own agents.

I gulp, "I, of course, do not mean any disrespect towards you, as you have other matters that need to be addressed in your day to day as Director, but I'm in daily contact with one or, on some days, all of them, and I'm deeply worried that something must be done."

"Your concern about your colleagues is commendable; however, I don't know what else I, as Director of NCIS, can do to help them cope with the death of their team leader. I've given them bereavement leave and offered more time off so they could sort their heads. I've offered psychological counselling - which was refused, if I might add - and I've also offered Agent DiNozzo the leadership of the team, giving him free choice over the fourth member of the team to cover the current vacant spot. What else do you expect me to do?"

I push my glasses back over the bridge of my nose, nervously glancing at my hands, before I lift my eyes to Vance's, "I need your help to do the following: We will..."


	8. Vance's mourning and Closure

_**Chapter 8: **__**Vance's mourning and Closure**__**  
**_  
Tony parks his car outside the Director's home and frowns when he sees McGee's Porsche, Ziva's mini and Ducky's Morgan neatly parked ahead. He looks to the other side of the road and finds Palmer's Honda right beside Abby's 1931 Ford Coupe.

He plays with the keys in his hands and approaches the door, but even before he rings the bell, it bursts open and a hurricane in black and red jumps in his arms.

"Tony, you're late! Everyone else is already here, come on!"

She doesn't even give him time to speak a word in edgewise before closing the door behind him and dragging him to the living room. There he finds McGee and Ziva sitting together on a settee sipping some kind of orange colored juice, while Jackie Vance offers some tall glasses of the same beverage to Ducky and Palmer who are sitting on the three seat sofa.

Director Vance approaches him and Abby, "We were only waiting for your arrival, Agent DiNozzo."

"What's going on here, Director Vance? Surprise party?"

Vance glances at Palmer, "The idea for this meeting came from Mr. Palmer, but despite my initial reservations about the wisdom of having it, I had the chance of studying the team's interactions throughout this week and I was convinced that this was needed."

"Really?"

If looks could kill, Palmer would be twitching and breathing his last breath on the floor right now.

Jackie sees the glance her husband is sending her, so she leaves the tray with the refreshments on the dinner table, "I'll leave you all alone, there are different types of finger food over there and refreshments are on the counter."

Jackie kisses Vance on his cheek, and leaves the room; all the agents are uncomfortably glancing at each other, at a loss of what to say.

"Sit down, all of you."

The standing agents rush to find a place on one of the comfortable sofas or chairs he had put in his living room. Vance studies each one of them, walks to the dinner table set with finger food and some wine and juice and slowly fills a glass of red wine, before he turns to look again at his agents.

"You were all ordered to come here tonight so we can address a matter of vital importance to all of you. As your director, I appreciate your dedication to your work, as I know that every single day you go out in the street or you work in labs you are trying to achieve something greater. To find justice for those that are not among us anymore."

He frowns as he sees Abby fidgeting then at McGee and Ziva sitting so close together that it was hard to see where one ended and one started, then to Ducky and Jimmy, both sitting forlornly on his sofa beside Tony.

"Yet, as your friend, I've also noticed how Gibbs' loss was deeply felt by you all. I am aware of how important he was to each one of you, for different reasons which are not necessary to be spoken aloud. His loss was felt deeply, yet I also know that he wouldn't accept or agree with what I'm seeing before me."

He turns to Tony, who instinctively sits straighter under the Director's gaze.

"Tony, you are now the team leader. I've given you a chance, which I'm sure you will not disappoint me, but as return of my confidence vote on you, I expect you to act as a leader. You have to be there for your team, how to learn how to balance your clown persona with the capable agent we all know you can be when the need arises. That's what Gibbs would have expected you to do, and what I want to see done."

Tony nods, acknowledging an order when he sees it. Vance then turns to the Israeli in the room.

"Ziva, Gibbs accepted you in his team and has embraced you as one of the few people he gave his trust to. You have found here in America and in NCIS a refuge from your turbulent past, and you forged an alliance with Gibbs that I have no doubt he cherished deeply. Yet, he's not here anymore, but I think he would expect you to continue his legacy of honor and courage, even in the deepest times of despair.

Ziva smiles thinly, one of her hands automatically going to her cherished Star of David hanging from her neck.

"McGee," Vance sees the youngest member of the team looking at him with saddened eyes, unable to hide the hurt he is feeling, "Gibbs took you in as he recognized in you a rough cut of a priceless gem, and he, during the following years, cut, chiseled and polished that green agent into one of the greatest promises of the Agency. You might have not approved his methods, which I have to agree were sometimes harsh or simply inappropriate, but you can't deny the results he sowed. You are one of his greatest achievements, and I'm sure that he was proud of you," McGee blinks repeatedly, staring at Vance, "even if he had never the chance or courage to say that out loud."

"We're all here tonight not to remember his death," Vance stands up, holding a glass of red wine in his hand, "but to celebrate his life. Because right here, in front of me, I have Gibbs' legacy. His blood relatives may be few, and his bloodline might have ended when his wife and daughter were brutally taken from him, but yet, in each one of you," he points to each of the agents, to Palmer, Ducky and Abby, " I can see a little bit of him. I can see his fingerprints, as clearly as if you were made of clay and the impression of his fingers were amplified by the malleability of your bodies and minds."

"In NCIS, Gibbs will remain as a myth, being passed to the next generation of agents yet to come, who will hear whispers of the great agent who once walked its corridors, but they will learn from _you _who the man really was."

Vance walks slowly to the M.E. studying the tear filled eyes behind the spectacles.

"Ducky, you were one of the few that got to know well the man behind the myth. One of the few that had been given a glimpse of what happened behind his cold blue eyes. Despite your differences, which were many, you overcame any initial mistrust and created a friendship that will always be remembered."

"Abby," the goth wipes her nose noisily in black lacy handkerchief, before lifting her eyes from the floor to the Director, "Gibbs loved you like a daughter. Even if he had never had the chance of voicing it out loud, we all knew it. But he would never have expected you to give up your music for him."

"So what I expect of you today, is to stop moping around and remember why he chose you, each one of you, to be by his side. I'm sure that, if he had the chance of being here right now to see how you are all dealing with this he would simply start distributing headslaps on all of you."

There are some chuckles, as they remember moments with the boss.

When Tony was dying, Gibbs headslapping forbidding him to die.

Gibbs kissing Abby's cheek, bringing her Caff-Pows.

Gibbs ordering McGee to hack into the Pentagon.

Ziva killing Ari in Gibbs` basement.

All turning points in their lives with the amazing marine who had molded and changed them.

"I would like to make a toast," there is a lull as each one looked for their own glass and stood up, in a small circle in Vance's living room. The Director looks into each of their faces, satisfied that the deep sadness that seemed to have been ingrained in their eyes is gone, as they are all focusing their minds on the good memories. Not the bad.

"I would like to make mine the words of Royster. And always think on these words when you see something that reminds you of him."

In a grave voice, Vance recites the old words of the poet:

_**"Do not stand by my grave and weep ... I am not there;**_  
_**I do not sleep.**_  
_**When you awaken in the morning's hush,**_  
_**I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds**_  
_**circling in flight.**_  
_**Do not stand by my grave and cry ...**_  
_**I am not there. **__**I did not die.**_  
_ - __Royster"_

_=== the end ===  
_


End file.
